


Camp Victory, How Wonderful You Are

by psocoptera



Category: Huge
Genre: Food Issues, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-29
Updated: 2010-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:19:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psocoptera/pseuds/psocoptera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe there's a reason Sierra cries so much?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camp Victory, How Wonderful You Are

**Author's Note:**

> Themes of eating, dieting, and hunger. Originally posted at [Camp Victory](http://community.livejournal.com/huge_deal/) on livejournal.

All Sierra really wants is to go back to her bunk and curl up under the covers, but Poppy is so cheerfully adamant about the egg race that she gives up and accepts the spoon and lines up.

She can't quite seem to hold the spoon steady even before George places the egg on it; the weight of the egg helps for a moment, then the shaking redoubles. She keeps her eyes on the egg, round and bone-white and wobbling, and almost misses George's starting whistle.

"All right Sierra!" Poppy cheers, and she takes a few trudging steps forward before the egg dives off and shatters on the grass.

The yolk is bright yellow, a blind eye staring at her. She stares back. She imagines it dripping from buttery toast, slithering whole down her throat…

"Sierra?" she hears behind her, and she realizes she's crouching, reaching for the ruins of the egg. A whole beautiful egg, wasted... when she's so hungry... she bursts into tears and runs blindly off the field.

Behind her, she can hear Poppy snagged by a couple of parents. She almost heads for the cabin, but, no, that's where she'll come look... she heads for a random bench instead, an out-of-the-way spot where she hides sometimes.

But today it's occupied, one of the boys, she can't seem to remember anyone's name anymore. Trent's friend. She stumbles to a halt and blinks, she needs to go somewhere else, she just can't think where...

"Hey," the boy says. "Sierra? Are you okay?"

"Mm-hm," she nods, but her lip trembles, and the damn tears start up again. "No... I don't know," she gives up.

"Hey," the boy says awkwardly, and gets up. "Come sit down for a sec," he says, and leads her by the elbow to the bench. "Uh... what's, um, what's wrong?"

"I just can't do anything," she sobs. "I'm such a klutz. And I'm so stupid. I swear, at home, I'm smart, I mean, not like a supergenius or something, but I'm not just stupid all the time. I can't even remember your name!"

"Oh, yeah," the boy says, "Forgettting _me_ , that's a bad sign," but he says it nicely, and even still crying, she feels a little bit better.

"Hey, listen, Sierra," he says. "I know this is kind of personal, but, um, I gotta ask. Do you, like, take insulin? Because if you were me, then I would need to take you to the nurse right now."

"No!" she says. "No." She's blubbering, she can hear herself, and she hates it, but the last thing she wants is another grownup telling her to stop being such a baby. She'd tried to tell Shay, when she first started to feel so weak and freaked out all the time, but Shay had just told her to pull herself together and work harder, that that's how it felt when you got your ass off the couch.

"Only babies whine," she mutters, and the tears had almost stopped, but there they go again.

"Okay," the boy says, "Hey. You just sit here for a minute, okay?" She sits there like a lump while he wanders off; she's not sure he's coming back, but then there he is, leading an older woman, his mom, she guesses.

"This is Sierra," he introduces, and his mom sits down next to her and pats her knee.

"Feeling a little down?" she asks, and rummages around in her purse for a minute. "Here," she says, "Try these."

She's holding out a little packet of Sweet Tarts, the little two-pack kind that Sierra remembers from Halloween as a kid.

Sierra recoils a little. "I can't have that," she mumbles, then, worried she's being rude, "It's not allowed, here. I'm sorry."

"It's 15 calories," the mom says. "And I'll tell your counselors it was my fault."

She takes Sierra's hand, uncurls it, then rips open the package and drops the Sweet Tarts into her palm.

Sierra chews them obediently. The sour sugar is intense and almost painful on her tongue.

They sit for a minute, the mom occasionally patting her knee.

"The brain runs on sugar," she says, after a bit. "Sometimes if you're hungry it can get hungry, and then you feel upset, or confused, but it's not your fault, it's just your brain, telling you it needs to get back in balance."

Sierra looks at her hands. She does feel a little bit steadier, a little bit calmer. She wipes her eyes.

She's still gnawingly hungry. She eyes the mom's big purse - she probably has more Sweet Tarts in there. For a second she's tempted to throw herself to her knees and beg. But, no, she's not actually starving, she reminds herself. It feels like it sometimes, but that's just her brain, like this mom just said.

"Thanks," she says instead. "And thanks, um," she adds, turning to the boy.

"Piznarski," he says. "Uh, Dante," he adds, glancing at his mom.

"I better go," Sierra says, standing.

"If you get real low like that," the boy - Dante - says, "All the counselors have something, for emergencies. Well, don't ask Shay, she won't give it unless, like, you're in a coma, but George is cool."

"Two Sweet Tarts aren't a miracle cure," his mom cautions her. "You be sure to have a good balanced lunch. Carbs, fat, and protein."

Lunch will be whatever they're serving - Poppy's "adoption" for the weekend doesn't extend to meals out - but Sierra nods.

"You should probably talk to the nurse, too," Dante's mom goes on. "She's really nice, I wouldn't want Dante here if she wasn't good."

"Mom," Dante mutters.

Sierra gives them a little wave and escapes before any other maternal advice can be offered. Maybe she will talk to Poppy; there's over a month of camp left, and she doesn't want to cry the whole time. But... maybe she'll just wait until they're done for the day with those egg races.


End file.
